Roman
The judge arrives just after dawn.
We don’t use churches or priests. Not for something that matters. A Bratva marriage is witnessed by family, by blood. The judge is just a signature to keep the world from interfering.
I stand beside Olivia as the papers are checked, stamped, and set before us.
She sits straight-backed in the little black dress I made her wear, her hands folded neatly on her lap.
But I can feel her pulse racing through the air between us, and I can smell her nervousness, sharp, sweet, laced with something else.
Desire.
It coils in my gut, threatens to break my control, but I force myself to wait. Not here. Not yet.
The judge doesn’t linger, he knows better. When he leaves, it’s done. Irrevocable.
Olivia is mine in the eyes of the law, as well as the Bratva.
The rest of the house stirs with life. The wives gather in the kitchen, children at their feet. Isabella rests a hand on her rounded belly as she chats with Sarah and Clara, the little ones stumbling between them, their laughter bouncing off marble floors.
Olivia watches with wide eyes, curiosity flickering across her face. She’s never seen this before. Family not bound by fear, women who aren’t treated like they are in the way, toddlers who laugh and play without looking over their shoulders.
I watch her watching them.
She belongs here. Even if she doesn’t believe it yet.
Mikhail presses a plate into her hands, a thick slice of bread and cured meat. She startles, but takes it. The wives coax her into sitting with them, their chatter softening her edges. For a moment, she looks like she belongs among them.
It should soothe me. It doesn’t.
Because all I can see is that dress.
The way the cut emphasises her figure, clinging to her breasts, to the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips. The way it rides up when she sits, baring pale thighs I already know the feel of. My cock hardens instantly, painfully, and my patience frays.
I slam back a shot of vodka to keep from dragging her upstairs like a savage. It doesn’t help. My brothers rib me with smirks and quiet laughter, but I barely hear them.
She is too perfect, too tempting, and I can’t wait another second.
I cross the room, my shadow falling over her. She looks up, startled, bread halfway to her mouth.
“Eat later,” I growl, yanking the plate from her hands and setting it aside.
Her cheeks flush, lips parting. “Roman—”
I grip her wrist, hauling her to her feet. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t resist. The wives glance up, smirks curving their mouths, but no one stops us. They know.
I drag her back through the corridors, up the stairs, into the suite that already smells like us. I slam the door shut and spin her against it, caging her with my body.
“That dress,” I rasp, my voice raw. “Do you know what it does to me?”
Her breath stutters. “N-no.”
My hands skim down her sides, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “It makes me want to tear it off. To bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you until you can’t walk straight. To put my seed in you again and again until you’re swollen with me.”
Her body trembles, but it isn’t fear. Her nipples strain against the thin silk, and her thighs part just slightly.
“Roman…”
The breathy, desperate sound of my name on her lips snaps the leash.
I crush my mouth to hers, devouring her, tasting bread and want and desire all mixed together. My hands fist in the dress, yanking it up over her hips, baring the smooth skin of her thighs. She gasps when I grip her ass, lifting her effortlessly, pressing her back against the door.
Her legs wrap around me, her arms tightening around my neck. The little black dress slides higher, pooling at her waist, leaving her bare for me.
I shove my trousers down, not wasting time, and line myself up. Her gray eyes lock with mine, wide, shimmering, but there’s no hesitation. Only want.
I thrust into her in one deep stroke, burying myself to the hilt. Her cry echoes against the door, muffled by my kiss as I swallow every sound she makes.
This isn’t just sex. This is consummation. Ceremony. My cock pounding into her is as binding as the ink on the papers now locked in a vault downstairs.
I move hard and fast, grinding deeper each time, claiming her body as my wife’s, my queen’s. She moans with every thrust, her voice breaking on my name, her tits bouncing beneath the fabric of the dress, her cunt clenching tighter, until she shatters around me.
I follow, roaring against her throat, spilling inside her, filling her until she’s overflowing with me. My hips jerk, my body trembling as I grind the last drops deep where they belong.
When it’s done, I hold her there, pinned against the door, her breath ragged, her cheeks flushed.
“You’re mine now,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her damp hair. “In every way.”
Her arms cling to me tighter, and her voice is a whisper against my skin. “Yes.”
That single word sealing it more than any signature ever could.